See How Deep the Bullet Lies
by alanabloom
Summary: "I had an interesting conversation with Jack last night," Hannibal says, his voice maddeningly calm as he looks at Will through the glass. "It seems Alana Bloom has...refocused her investigative efforts. " Will's blood turns to ice. "Perhaps you could dissuade her from going too far down this route. After all, there could be all sorts of consequences." Two shot.
1. Chapter 1

_And if I only could_  
_Make a deal with God,_  
_and get him to swap our places_

"You don't have to come so often."

"I do, actually. If you want me to be prepared for the trial."

Will nods, and they both pretend that the trial is Alana's real reason for visiting, as if she hasn't already administered every test or asked him about every instance he was symptomatic.

His eyes skirt to the ground, and he mumbles, "I _wish_ you didn't have to come so often."

It's both true and not true, a frustrating contradiction. Because Will _needs_ Alana now. Some days the knowledge that she could walk down the corridor at any time is the only thing that keeps him sane. He needs her warmth, her concern, and her steady, unwavering faith in him (she doesn't believe him, but she believes _in_ him, and Will has slowly begun to appreciate that all the same).

But the strength of his relief each time he picks out her footsteps approaching his cell is equaled by his shame. It sickens him that Alana has to see him in this place, that is he just another monster on the wrong side of the glass. His orange jumpsuit, the padded room, the barriers between them...it all feels so much more damning when Will views them through her eyes.

And then there's the fact that Alana can never quite hide her own sorrow, the way something crumbles and breaks behind her in eyes in the course of each visit, and the way she looks so, _so_ sorry each time she leaves him. Will should maybe be grateful for that, that someone out there is worrying about him, but he can only think of that first day, the way she said she felt wounded, and the fact that he had done that to her.

She had tried to keep her distance. But Will knows Alana's mistake: she hadn't wanted to be dragged into his darkness, but she had tried to stay close enough to pull him out. It became a tug of war, and she'd lost in the end. She got too close. The bullet hit. He left her wounded.

And now she comes to the Baltimore State Hospital, this horrible place Will has always hated, several times a week, always looking a bit more exhausted and edgy than she ever did Before. It fills him up with guilt.

And yet Will knows she is his best chance.

"Did you see Chilton already?"

Alana looks surprised at the question. They typically pretend her conversations with Will are the only part of her visits to Baltimore, that she isn't consulting with his various doctors. Neither likes the reminder that, in spite of all their efforts to avoid it, Alana must now think of Will as a patient.

"Only briefly."

"Did he show you the scans?"

That gets a smile from her. "He did. It's great, Will. No sign of swelling."

"I'm clear headed," he informs seriously. "No hallucinations. No sleepwalking. I am thinking..._so_ clearly." He draws a breath, then forces himself to meet her eyes. "And I have to tell you something."

Alana's face doesn't change, but her eyes shutter with the familiar combination of weariness and patience, the look she always gets when he starts in on Hannibal.

Will shakes his head quickly, "No, it's different this time. Really."

"Alright," she says quietly. "What is it?"

"Abigail killed Nicholas Boyle."

Alana frowns, thrown off; that was obviously the last thing she expected to hear.

"She killed him at her house, the night he disappeared...and Hannibal helped her hide the body."

The mention of Hannibal's name chases away the surprise from her expression. The weariness is back. "Will..."

"Alana, just listen." Will swallows hard, trying to banish the plea from his voice. He's been mentally rehearsing this for the past twenty-four hours, has promised himself he will remain rational and calm, but already he can feel desperation swelling in his gut. "This isn't a theory. It isn't something I figured out after the fact. I knew it happened, because Hannibal told me." He grimaces a little, then admits, "And I covered for her, too."

Alana frowns at him, uncertain. "Why would you do that?"

"Hannibal said it was self-defense. And...I didn't think she would knowingly kill someone who didn't deserve it." He lifts his eyes to Alana's, voice low and heavy with significance. "I wanted to protect her."

The explanation hits its mark; Alana can certainly understand that desire. She bites her lip, and then nods at him. "Go on."

"I thought Hannibal was doing the same thing," Will continues, an edge to his voice. "Protecting her. But now I think he set it up." The barest glint of skepticism returns to Alana's eyes, and Will hurriedly explains, "Remember, he disagreed with you about letting Abigail go back to her house. He wanted to see what would happen." Will draws a breath, steadying himself. Trying not to sound paranoid. "I didn't know at first. And he only told me when I figured it out...when Nicholas Boyle's body was found, I was having dreams...I went to the morgue. Saw the body, and...I realized it was Abigail. I went to Hannibal's office...and he said he already knew. He told me we had to protect her. That we were her _fathers_ now." The last two sentences are spat out, laced with contempt. The manipulation is so obvious to him now.

Alana doesn't say anything for a moment, her face drawn as she processes this, her confusion evident. Just the fact that she isn't immediately shutting him down, blaming it on his illness, provokes a nervous flutter in his chest. Will leans forward, his hands braced on the glass, expression earnest as he articulates what he thinks - hopes - Alana is already turning over in her mind.

"Alana. Please. Everything else I've said, everything you and Jack don't believe...I never claimed to have proof. I never claimed to be there. This is something I _remember_. Distinctly. I was in my right mind, I just made a bad decision."

Slowly, as though she's not sure what question to begin with, Alana asks, "Why...do you think Hannibal wanted to test Abigail? What made him think something would happen?"

Just this small gift, the simple fact that she is asking more questions, make Will's legs go weak with relief. "Abigail helped her father lure the girls he would kill. Hannibal probably knew that; he wanted to know how she'd act when confronted. Hell, he probably made sure Nicholas Boyle could get into the house."

Alana's frowning now. "You always said she had nothing to do with her father's crimes."

Will grimaces. "I was wrong," he admits quietly. "I was...too close. I didn't _want_ her to have done it." Alana gives him a sympathetic look at that, and Will can almost read her mind, wondering if he's doing it again, simply rationalizing what he wants to be true. He quickly adds, "Jack knew that part, at least. The day Abigail was killed, he was looking to arrest her for helping her father...he told me, they'd found proof."

Alana's eyes flash. "He never told me that."

"I guess it became less important after she died," Will mutters, his face tightening painfully. He drops his forehead against the glass for a moment, then lifts his head, eyes a little wild now. "Alana, _please_. There was evidence that Nick Boyle killed Marissa Shore, remember? And now they...they're saying I killed her, but I couldn't have planted that evidence, I couldn't have killed Nick Boyle...I was with Jack at the crime scene, remember? I never even saw Nicholas Boyle, I wasn't there until after."

"I know you weren't," she assures him quietly. Will had been the one to shake her back to consciousness, having found her unconscious on the floor with a minor head wound when he and Jack returned to the Hobbs home.

Her mind is cycling, trying to process all this information. Then she looks up at Will, that heartbreakingly desperate look on his face, and she refocuses. There will be time to contemplate later.

"Alright," she tells him steadily. "I'll look into it. I promise, Will. I'll talk to Jack about Abigail, and see if he'll give me to file on Nick Boyle. Okay?"

"You...you don't think I'm lying?"

"Oh, Will..." Her face softens. "I never think you're _lying_. You know that, right?"

He nods; he does know. In spite of the fact that she doesn't yet believe him, in spite of everything she thinks he's done...Alana has never blamed him. She always made a point to assure him that she does not think he's a killer, that it was all his sickness, never him.

"And I know you're right. Nicholas Boyle's death...it's a big gaping hole in this case. I'm not going to let this go, I swear to you."

"Thank you." His voice is shaking. Will can feel a weak ember of hope, trying to ignite. In the next second, however, it extinguishes, and his eyes go wide with alarm. "But _don't_ ask Hannibal anything, alright? Not even about Abigail killing Nicholas Boyle, just..he can't know you know. I don't want him to hurt you."

Alana's chest constricts in the way that's become familiar; this isn't the first time Will's expressed worry about her. His hands are still braced on the glass, and she lifts her own hand and touches the barrier, in the same place as his own.

Will feels the familiar, bone deep ache of longing that comes at the end of her visits. As always, it strikes him how strange it is that he can begin to miss her even before she goes. He stares at their hands, mirroring each other, and he wonders why he always undervalued human touch.

He could draw a map of all the places she's touched him, so visceral are the memories, as though she left behind indelible but invisible fingerprints, seared into his skin, the opposite of scars. The nape of his neck, where her hand had rested when they kissed. His left cheek, where she'd felt the first signs of a fever. His right hand, which she'd been holding when he woke up in the hospital after killing Gideon.

Only now that the glass is between them does he realize how good all those times felt; only now does his skin tingle and burn with the need for contact.

"I'll be fine," Alana assures him firmly. "And so will you." She tells him this every time, and there's an unmistakable fear in her eyes when she says it, like she's afraid this place will break him, drive him crazy even if he wasn't already. "I'm working on it."

"I know you are. Thank you."

She makes herself smile at him; she does that every time, too, so Will looks even though it hurts to see how delicate it is, the way her lips tremble and her eyes water with the effort of appearing reassuring. And all he can think is _wounded_.

"Bye, Will. I'll be back soon, alright?"

He nods. "Bye."

When she moves her hand off the glass, there's a faint outline left behind, and when he's alone again, Will sits and watches the smudge until it fades, a mark not nearly so permanent.

~(W*A)~

Alana sits in her car for forty-five minutes after she leaves Will, thinking about everything he said.

She does not know what to believe anymore, but certain things are indisputable.

Abigail supposedly scratched Nicholas Boyle in her struggle to get away from him...and the blood on her hands, Nicholas Boyle's blood, matched the tissue they pulled from Marisa Shore's body.

And yet Marisa Shore's murder had been linked to Will. They'd found her hair in his fishing reels.

Nicholas Boyle and Will couldn't have both killed the girl. And Will had been with Jack the whole evening; he couldn't have set Nicholas Boyle up.

Which meant, someone else had.

And if someone else had set Nicholas Boyle up...well, couldn't they have set up Will?

Her heart is hammering, her stomach tightening in a vague sense of dread, an instinct that seems to be ahead of her brain. Her own voice comes back to her, arguing with Jack over Nicholas Boyle's body.

_Any reservations I have about Abigail don't extend to Hannibal. He has no reason to lie about any of this._

She cranks her car, suddenly purposeful, and she goes to see Jack Crawford.

~(W*A)~

"Did Abigail Hobbs kill Nicholas Boyle?"

Jack looks up at her entrance, and when her question registers, he gives her the most sarcastic look she's ever seen on a person's face. "I seem to remember you were _very_ adamant that wasn't the case."

Alana gives him a look that borders on contemptuous; their relationship is, at best, _strained_ these days. In a slow, deliberate voice, as if she's talking to an idiot, Alana clarifies, "Has new evidence come to light that suggests Abigail may have killed Nicholas Boyle?"

Jack sighs and leans back in his chair, giving the overall impression that he's in no mood to deal with Alana. "Evidence came to light that Abigail was aware of and involved in her father's murders. That certainly reopened my suspicions regarding Nicholas Boyle's death, yes. And Freddie Lounds, prompted by nothing, by the way, definitely believed it was possible."

Alana scowls immediately at the mention of the blogger. "Freddie Lounds believes a lot of things. I'm talking about genuine evidence."

"Right. Lounds believed Will had the capacity to kill." Jack narrows his eyes. "Funny how that works."

Fury is coiling around Alana's spine, and she can feel her focus slipping away as she practically growls at Jack, "You realize you want Will to be a serial killer. You want him to have known what he's doing because that absolves _you_ from all blame."

Jack sighs heavily, exhaustion clouding his eyes. "You're wrong. I hope to God he didn't know what he was doing, that it was the brain condition. The fact that he's recovering, and still sticking to his paranoid claims..."

"Just because his brain is recovering doesn't bring back memories of the time he lost, all the instances he disassociated," Alana says tersely.

"I hope you're right," Jack says firmly. "But what's this about Nicholas Boyle? Suddenly you _do_ believe Abigail killed him?"

"I'm not sure what I believe," she says honestly, taking a seat across from Jack at his desk. "But I _know_ that there was evidence linking Boyle to Marisa Shore's murder. A murder you now claim was committed by Will." She arches an eyebrow, eyes flashing. "So which is it, Jack?"

Crawford's quiet, a slow frown settling his face; he clearly hadn't considered that. After a moment though, clarity lights his eyes and he looks at Alana again. "I've said from the beginning that Abigail Hobbs killed Boyle. They could never determine time of death on him, so we don't know when it happened, but _something_ was going on between them."

"But why would she plant evidence on him for a murder _Will_ committed? How would she even manage that?"

"Abigail had been trained by her father. She's gone, so we'll never know the extent to which she helped him with his crimes, but she_ did_ help him. It's possible she genuinely believed Boyle killed her friend, and wanted to set him up."

"That doesn't make sense, Jack." Alana's quiet for a moment, then. "And if she was setting him up...why would he attack us?"

"Maybe he didn't. Maybe it was all Abigail."

She lets out a short laugh. "Are you suggesting that Abigail managed to slam my head into a wall without me seeing her, then sneak up on Hannibal and knock him in the back of the head?"

Jack gives her a shrewd look. "What exactly are _you_ suggesting, doctor?" Alana doesn't answer immediately. "Because it sounds like you're starting to agree with Will about Dr. Lecter."

"Of course not..." She doesn't sound as certain as she'd like. "But..." She thinks back to what Will said. "What if Abigail killed Nicholas Boyle thatnight? If she thought he was attacking her, and she panicked...?"

Jack shrugs. "It's possible. But she would have needed time to hide the body, and as far as I remember, Dr. Lecter wasn't unconscious very long."

"And he took Abigail back to the hotel right after," Alana reminds him, voice heavy with significance.

"I'm going to ask you again, Alana," Jack says, expression dead serious. "_What are you suggesting_?"

She hesitates, choosing her words carefully. "Do you think Hannibal would lie to protect Abigail? That he would have helped her?"

He looks skeptical. "It's possible, I suppose. He was very attached to her...but no more so than _Will_."

Alana glares at him. "True, but Will was with you the whole evening. He couldn't have planted evidence on the blood on Abigail's hands."

Jack's quiet for a long time, seemingly unable to refute this. Finally, he nods once. "Then, yes. I believe it's just possible that Hannibal would have helped her."

Leaning forward, Alana asks, "Then why woud he plant evidence of a murder Will committed? When no one _knew_ who committed it?" When this again renders Jack silent, Alana insists, "You see, Jack, something's not right."

He sighs. "You may be right, but I believe it has more to do with Abigail Hobbs than with Will. Like I said, her father trained her much more than any of us realized...she may have planted evidence on Nick Boyle on her own. We just don't know, but she's dead now, and so are any answers we could have gotten out of her."

Frustrated, Alana stands up. "I want the file on the Nicholas Boyle murder," she demands, tone leaving no room for argument. "And Marisa Shore...and anything you have on Abigail."

Sighing, Jack scrutinizes her for a moment. "Did you see Will this morning, doctor?"

She grits her teeth, and something inside her snaps, "Go_damn_it, Jack, just give me the fucking files. I'm no longer expecting your help, you've made it _more_ than clear there's no point, but I _am_ going to follow up on this."

Fifteen minutes later, she leaves with copies of the files under her arm.

Jack Crawford sits stewing in his office after Alana leaves, disconcerted by the encounter. He's almost instinctively defensive around Alana lately, and it's only when she's gone that he feels clear headed enough to consider what she said objectively.

He comes up with more questions than answers, unfortunately, but by the end of his contemplation, Jack decides he needs to direct at least some of those questions toward Hannibal.

~(W*A)~

Will's lying on the bed the next morning when he hears the whir of the security doors opening down the corridor. There's no reason to think the visitor is for him, but nerves and hope dovetail anyway. Maybe it's Alana, back already, having had the night to consider what he said.

The footsteps continue, coming closer, and there's a reasonable probability that they're coming to his cell; Will sits up, staring at the glass, waiting.

Hannibal walks into view.

Anger slams into Will, so sudden and powerful that for a moment he can't react. In the next second though, he launches himself to his feet, fists clenched at his sides, and approaches the glass.

"Dr. Lecter," he grits out, his voice quiet and dangerous.

"Hello, Will." Hannibal smiles pleasantly, as if they're meeting for a session. Like nothing has changed. "I hope you're well."

"What do you want?" Will spits out. It is so tempting to fling accusations, to launch into a tirade and let his anger breathe. But that's what Hannibal wants; he _likes_ that Will can understand him. Further proof of it will only give him pleasure.

"I had an interesting conversation with Jack Crawford last night," Hannibal says, his voice maddeningly calm and conversational as he looks at Will through the glass. "It seems Alana Bloom has...refocused her investigative efforts. Become _very_ interested in Nicholas Boyle and Marisa Shore." Will's blood turns to ice. "I believe I've dissuaded Jack from pursuing that line of inquiry, but I imagine will be more...persistent." He smiles slightly at Will. "Perhaps you could dissuade her from going too far down this route. After all, there could be all sorts of consequences."

"If you _touch_ her," Will's voice is vibrating with rage, and the words feel like broken glass in his throat. "I will _end_ you. I don't care how long it takes."

Hannibal makes a tutting sound, tilting his head at Will in concern. "This paranoia again, Will? You should be careful...too much of this will only hurt your case." He smiles. "I hope Alana visits you soon, so you two can talk. I'd hate for her to get too far encroached in this investigation before you tell her it's useless." He inclines his head politely. "Goodbye, Will."

Will squeezes his eyes shut, red bleeding into his vision as he listens to the departure of Hannibal's footsteps, soon followed by the whir of the security door. There's a scream working its way up Will's chest, so big it hurts to breathe. It claws its way up his throat, and Will drops to his knees and grabs his pillow just in time to muffle the sound.

When it's over, his throat raw, Will drops the pillow and stumbles to his feet, pacing the cell. He thought he felt claustrophobia before, but it's nothing like this; he feels like a caged animal, without the simple luxury of a cell phone. He can't call her. Can only wait unti she shows up, and hope it's not too late.

Will claws at his scalp, frustrated, dizzy with panic. If he freaks out, has an "episode", will they call her? He considers this briefly, but ultimately decides against it. He has no way of knowing they would contact Alana, and anyway, he would certainly be sedated, unable to speak to her even if she did show up.

Moments after dropping the idea of faking a breakdown, Will finds himself teetering on the edge of a real one. The cell seems impossibly small, devoid of air. His thoughts are slipping, rationality leaving him; he becomes nothing but pure fear.

_I feel wounded._

Will drops to his knees, fists braced on the floor, trying to ground himself. The room is spinning.

Minutes crawl by like years, and hours feel like they span entire lifetimes. He thinks of his drawn clock, the clock he now knows was incorrect, the numbers falling off the face, time rendered meaningless and chaotic.


	2. Chapter 2

Will lies on the floor, reminding himself to breathe, and he waits for the whir of the security doors. They open twice, but the footsteps stop long before his cell: someone else's lawyer, some other psychiatrist. Will has nothing scheduled today, no medical tests or psych evals.

He tries to tell himself Hannibal is bluffing. That there is no one to pin the crime on, that it will not seem random, but of course that will not stop him. Hannibal is smart. And he will kill her before he lets her catch him. He will weigh the risks. He will find a way to hide the body.

Will thinks of Cassie Boyle, Marisa Shore, Georgia Madchen, and his stomach rolls sickeningly.

It takes seven hours before the security doors whir and bring a visitor for Will, and he feels impossibly aged in the span of time. But when the foosteps have gone on long enough, and he can discern the unmistakable click of women's heels, he stumbles to his feet, everything inside him on the verge of collapse...when Beverly Katz appears in front of the glass.

His face falls, and she immediately frowns. "Geez, good to see you, too."

"Sorry," he grits out. "I just..." Suddenly, realization hits him, and his eyes light with purpose. "Do you have a cell phone?"

"Um. Yes."

"I need you to call Alana Bloom for me," Will practically demands. "I've gotta talk to her."

Beverly glances around, skeptical. "I'm actually pretty sure I was supposed to hand my phone over when I got here. And anyway, I just saw Dr. Bloom."

"What?" Will's instantly on alert. "Where?"

"At the lab. She showed up requesting the autopsy reports on Nicholas Boyle and Marisa Shore...for _your_ trial she said," Beverly rolls her eyes a little. "Though your psychiatric team really needs to coordinate their tasks better."

Will goes stone still, dread hooking into his stomach and tugging. "What does that mean?"

"Dr. Lecter showed up about half an hour after Bloom left. He wanted the same files, for the same reason. I told him I'd given them to Alana...he said he'd just meet up with her to go over them."

It takes Will a moment to release the words from his throat; he knew Jack was keeping his accusations of Hannibal strictly 'need to know' for now, letting the forensics team go over all the evidence without trying to steer them in what he felt was a random direction. He hadn't anticipated it being so dangerous. "When...when did you see him?"

"Maybe twenty minutes ago? He caught me on my way out."

Will's palm collides with the glass, and Beverly jumps back, startled. Pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes, Will speaks in a low, monosyllabic voice, "Call Jack Crawford. Tell him to send a unit to Alana's house. _Now_. Get her in protective custody."

Beverly narrows her eyes. "Will, what the hell is-"

"_Beverly_. If you ever, even for a second, thought that I was maybe worthy of some sort of trust...now's the time to trust me." He lifts his eyes to hers, and she reads the genuine terror there. "Please. Just call."

Will resumes his pacing while she makes the phone call; he can hear the vague murmurings of an argument (_Yeah, Jack, I'm with Will...no, it's not him sending you, it's ME sending you...just do it now, I'll explain later, alright?_), but none of it registers.

He did this. He dragged Alana beneath the waves, led her into darkness, pushed her in the path of a bullet. He is like a stupid, selfish little boy who doesn't consider consequences.

Beverly hangs up the phone and turns around. The sight in front of her is disconcerting: Will's walking in circles around the tiny dimensions of the room, hands clawing spasmodically at his skull, his eyes wild.

"Hey," she says firmly. "He's sending a unit, okay, Will? They're on their way. Now tell me what's going on."

He spins on his heel, ignoring the question and quickly approaching the glass. "Now call Alana. Put her on speaker, I...I need to talk to her."

Annoyed now, Beverly crosses her arms. "You need to tell me what this about."

"_Please_." He loses it a little, face twisting, voice louder than it needs to be. "Fuck, Alana could already...she could already be dead..." His voice unravels. "Please, I just need to talk to her, please..."

"Okay, Will. It's okay," Beverly says quickly, keeping her voice decidedly calm. "I'm calling her now, alright?"

She dials and puts the phone on speaker, the volume up as the dial tone repeats it's long, monotonous note. Will's leaning against the glass, eyes fixated on the phone. It takes three rings and then, the sweetest sound he's ever heard, "Hello?"

"_Alana_..." His voice splinters apart in the middle, but her name sounds absurdly beautiful in his mouth, the greatest thing he's ever said. She's okay.

"Will?! Where are you calling from, what's wrong?"

"It's Beverly's phone, she's visiting...listen, are you at home?"

"Yes..."

"Okay, don't...don't go anywhere. And don't open the door, okay? Not until...I told Jack to send a unit over. They'll make sure you're okay, so just stay locked inside until then, alright, _promise_ me."

"Will, what's wrong?"

"Hannibal was here, and he said something. He wanted me to stop you from looking into the Nicholas Boyle stuff. And he knows you had the file, he went by the lab." Beverly's eyes are huge, questions all over her face, but Will's still staring at the phone in her hand as though that will somehow keep him more connected to Alana. "I know you don't believe me, but-"

"No," Alana cuts him off. "Will, I do. I do believe you."

In spite of himself, in spite of everything, Will still feels the impact of these words. As though he can barely let himself believe it, he repeats in a small voice, "You do?"

"Yes," she assures him fervently. Her voice catches. "Will, I'm _so_, so sorry."

He rests his forehead against the glass; his body feels physically weak with relief. "Don't be."

"No, I am." Her voice is thick with tears now, and again, Will feels the aching need to touch her, even now when she's not physically in front of him. "I should've...I should've known you could never..."

"But you never thought I could, not really." he reminds her. "You never blamed me, you never...made me feel like a monster."

"I _knew_ you weren't, I always knew that, but _God_, Will, I've been so stupid..."

"No. Never."

Beverly has a million questions, but there's something so intimate and emotional about the conversation that she feels like an intruder. She awkwardly holds the phone as close to the glass as she can get it while glancing idly over her shoulder, affecting a distracted look as though she's admiring the decor of the prison.

"I'm so sorry..."

"_I'm_ sorry, I put you in danger..."

"No, no, I'm fine. And I _am_ going to get you out of there. _Soon_, okay, I swear, I'll-" She stops talking abruptly. Several of the dogs are barking.

"Alana?"

There's a pause, and then, in a quiet, frightened voice, "Someone's in the house...the doors were locked."

Beverly jerks her head around. Will's hand are against the glass, palms paper white, looking like he's literally straining toward the phone. "Alana, _stay on the line_..."

"Alana?" That's another voice, barely audible, from somewhere else in the house.

Hannibal's voice.

"_ALANA_," Will yells before he can stop himself.

"In here," Alana answers in an odd, strangled voice.

"Alana, _get out of the house RUN_," Will commands.

Then Alana says in a flat, dazedly calm voice, "_Record_."

It takes Beverly a few seconds to register that Alana's talking to them...or more specifically, to Beverly. She fumbles with her iPhone until she finds the proper tool, recording the conversation.

Hannibal and Alana's voices come over the speakerphone.

"How are you this evening?" Hannibal, sounding perfectly pleasant.

"Oh, I'm fine. I didn't hear you knock."

"Your door was open. You should be careful about that."

"Oh, God. I hope none of the dogs got out." It's impressive, Beverly has to admit. Alana sounds completely innocuous and conversational; you'd have to be listening incredibly closely to pick up the note of fear in her voice.

"I wouldn't worry about that," Hannibal responds smoothly. "From what I understand, Will let them run outdoors quite frequently. They presumably know not to run off."

"You're probably right."

Beverly glances up at Will. His eyes are screwed shut, hands clenching at his scalp.

"She only has to hold him off until Jack's unit gets there," Beverly tells him an undertone, feeling the strange need to whisper even though she can easily discern what Alana's done: she put her phone on speaker, but muted the sound on her end, then set it down. If Hannibal tries something, he will have no idea evidence is being recorded.

"What are you working on?" Hannibal's asking.

"Oh, just more prep work for Will's trial."

"You've been working hard on that."

"He needs a strong case...I've been looking for precedence with this sort of thing. Specifically involving encephalitis, but Will's empathy and his job add such a unique layer to everything, it's hard to find much."

"I can imagine," Hannibal says, sounding genuinely sympathetic. Then, without missing a beat, he adds smoothly, "And what about Nicholas Boyle and Marisa Shore? Are you finding anything helpful in those files?"

Will lets out a strangled sound. "_Alana_."

"Will, she can't hear us," Beverly says in a quiet, tight voice.

It takes Alana a beat to answer, her calm slipping just a little. "I...haven't even gotten around to them yet."

"I'm curious...Nicholas Boyle has nothing to do with Will's case."

"Not yet. But Jack said something that made me worry he's starting to suspect Will for that murder, too."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Since they never knew when he died, and technically it's still unsolved...I just wanted to be prepared."

There's a long, weighted pause. Then, Hannibal's voice comes through the tiny speakers, "I think you're lying, Alana."

It takes Alana a moment to answer. "Why's that?"

"Because we both know Will didn't kill Nicholas Boyle."

"If...if you have any theories, I'd like to-"

"You were always the most promising resident I ever had," Hannibal comments, something almost like mild regret in his voice. "So we both know you're smarter than this."

There's a long, significant pause as if, on the other end of the phone, Alana is gauging Hannibal, trying to get a read on her situation.

When she speaks again, her voice has changed. There's no fear, no forced calm. It's all venom. "_Fine_. You're right. I am smarter than that."

"_NO!_"

"Will..." Beverly gives him a helpless look.

"I know what you did," Alana's voice is trembling with anger. "I know it was you. All those people..." Alana pauses, and then, with raw, barely restrained rage, "And I know what you're doing to Will..."

"_Alana_!" Will looks quite deranged, face contorted in a wild mix of fury and terror.

"You're fond of him," Hannibal says mildly. "I understand that. I'm fond of him, too."

"_Fuck_ you," Alana snarls. "You're _destroying_ him. But you won't get away with it. He's not taking the fall for your crimes-"

"I'm sorry, Alana," Hannibal plows forward without acknowledging her words. "I've always been fond of you, as well. I had hoped it would never come to this..."

"_NO_," Will lets out a howl, lurching forward, his whole body slamming against the glass, at the same time there's a crash on the other end of the phone.

It only takes a few moments before Alana lets out a terrified scream. It's all Beverly can do to keep her grip on the phone. There's another crash, lots of barking, and then Alana's voice - "_Don't_" - and, finally, another sort of scream entirely: pure, agonizing pain.

Something inside Will shatters, and he starts screaming, an incoherent, raw mess among which Beverly can almost discern syllables of Alana's name. Will's slamming against the glass with every part of his body. His forehead starts bleeding at some point, but he keeps beating his fists, slamming himself against the barrier, as if all it would take to save Alana is him getting out of his cage.

Beverly can no longer hear what's happening at the other end of the phone; Will's screams are echoing through the hallway, and two guards come running down the corridor, and she can only watch, horrorstruck, as they open Will's cell and grab his arms roughly, pinning him against the glass and sticking a syringe into his neck.

Even with that, it takes Will several moments to lose consciousness. A scream dies on its way out as he goes limp in the guard's grip, and his eyes meet Beverly's; it's not a look she'll ever be able to forget...she catches him in the strange transition from raw, overpowering emotion to a complete hollow, haunted void. It's like watching a death, a death nothing that's ever ended up on her lab table could have prepared her for.

"You alright, ma'am?" One of the guards asks her as the other wheels a gurney over for Will. She nods, even though she's quite far from alright.

They're wheeling Will away when Jack Crawford strides down the hall. He pulls up short as they pass him, staring down at the gurney then looking up at Beverly and, shaking his head a little to recover, moves toward her. "What the hell is going on?"

Dazed, Beverly drags her eyes to look at Crawford. "I thought...you were sending a unit. To Alana Bloom's."

"I did," Jack says impatiently. "They should be there by now, but I wanted to find out what the hell this was about, and why you were apparently supporting Will's delusions. Now I'm not going to ask this again: what the hell is going on?"

She turns slowly, retrieving her phone that somehow ended up on the floor. The call is disconnected now, the recording stopped. She scrolls for a moment, then presses play.

She doesn't watch Jack's face as the conversations plays out in its entirety. In fact, she hands the phone to him and walks away when it gets close, but she can still hear the tinny, muffled sounds of Alana's screams.

~(W*A)~

Will wakes up on the tiny mattress that passes for a bed at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. He's strapped at the hands and ankles, but he doesn't struggle against them. Will wakes up with the look of a man who wishes he hadn't.

Jack and Beverly are there, having been waiting for the sedative to wear off.

"Go away," Will croaks out, immediately closing his eyes again.

"Will. Alana's alive."

He looks at them again, uncomprehending. "You're lying. I...I heard her."

"The unit you ordered showed up. They heard the dogs going crazy and went inside. Apparently Hannibal was counting on having plenty of time to cover his tracks...he made a run for it, we're still looking for him now...left her bleeding on the floor..."

"What...what did he do to her?"

"Stabbed," Jack says grimly. "But she's alive, Will. She's still alive."

His throat has to work furiously to get words out. "Is...is she gonna stay alive?"

Beverly and Jack exchange a look. "She's in surgery," Jack tells him finally. "We don't know much yet."

"I need to _see her_," Will forces out weakly.

A nurse comes over then, forcing Bev and Jack into the hallway so they can assess Will before returning him to the cell.

As soon as they're in the hallway, Beverly turns to Jack. "When can you get him out?"

"It's not that simple."

"_Make_ it that simple."

"Technically we still don't have proof that Hannibal committed the other crimes."

"Oh, come _on_-"

"I'm not saying he didn't. I'm saying I don't have to proof required to release Will."

Beverly fixes Jack with a long, hard stare that reminds him eerily of Alana. "We don't even know if she's gonna make it through surgery. But if she does...what if, God forbid, she dies in that hospital sometime in the next week, and Will doesn't get a chance to see her, ever again, because you had him locked in a prison for crimes he didn't commit." She lets that sink in. "Figure it out, Jack."

~(W*A)~

Alana Bloom opens her eyes.

For a second, everything's white light and an unprecedented amount of pain, so overwhelming at first that she's disoriented and can't figure out its origin. Alana snaps her eyes shut again, and after a moment manages to assess: her abdomen, all the way around to her hip, are throbbing with pain.

And someone's holding her hand.

That mystery is enough to make her put in the effort of rolling her head to the side and opening her eyes.

Will Graham is asleep in a chair, pushed as close the bed as the physical space allows. His chin is dropped against his chest in what looks like a supremely uncomfortable position, and his hand is locked with hers.

And, most amazingly of all, he's _here_.

"_Will_..." There's nothing behind her voice; it's a pitiable little squeak, so Alana swallows several times, and tries again, squeezing his hand simultaneously. "Will?"

His eyes flutter open, and he blinks uncertainly for a moment...but in the next second, his eyes land on hers, and his whole face crumples.

"Alana..."

"You're here..." She gives him a clumsy smile.

He leans on the edge of her bed, reaching up with his free hand and brushing a limp lock of her hair off her forehead. "How do you feel?"

"Lousy," she says honestly. There's a slight slur to her words, the effects of the drugs evident. "But I don't care, because you're here, you're out..."

"Yeah. As of yesterday."

She frowns a little. "How long has it been?"

"Little over a week." Will's face tightens, a catch in his voice as he adds, "Alana, I never wanted..._this_. I swear, I'd have stayed in jail, taken a life sentence, if I'd known-"

"No," she shakes her head fervently. "No more jail. No life sentence. I wouldn't have let you."

He tries to smile, but his eyes are wet.

Suddenly, the grogginess fades a little from Alana's eyes, and her face slowly collapses. "Will, I'm so sorry..."

"No," he says firmly. "Don't be. Hannibal...he fooled all of us." His eyes darken. "Me more than anyone."

"But I knew him longer, and I - oh, _God_, Will, I'm the one who recommended him for you." Her eyes fill with tears, genuine horror etched in her face, and Will traces his thumb down the curve of her cheekbone, the touch calming.

"Ssh, we don't have to talk about any of this now," he tells her softly. "I should get the doctor, anyway." He moves to stand, but Alana lets go of his hand and grips his arm instead, insistent.

"No, Will, wait..." He sits back down immediately. Alana looks anguished. "I did this to you, I'm the reason he..." A sob tears out of her, and she closes her eyes, sending tears rolling down her cheeks.

"Hey..." Will gets up from his chair and sits on the edge of the bed. "Alana. You almost _died_. He could have killed you, I thought he _had_ killed-" His voice breaks, and Will presses his lips together for a moment until he can continue, voice unsteady. "And that's because of me. Because I sent you after information, I put you in danger."

"Will, that wasn't your fault-"

He almost smiles. "And nothing that happened to me was yours," he tells her firmly. "They caught Hannibal. He's in jail. And I've already taken enough blame for things Hannibal did. Let's not do that anymore, okay?"

She smiles tremulously back at him. "Okay."

They're quiet for a moment, Will absently stroking her hair, his thumb making slow, gentle circles against hers. "Did you take your dogs home?" Alana asks him after a moment.

"No, I haven't been home," Will admits. "Went straight from Baltimore to here. Beverly's feeding them at your place until...whenever."

Alana smiles a little, her eyes drifting shut again, voice fuzzy with exhaustion. "I'm kinda gonna miss them."

"Well, don't worry. You can come over and 'cuddle up with them' anytime you want."

She opens one eye to look at him. "How about you? Can I cuddle up with you?"

Will's throat tightens, and for a second he feels like his chest might burst. "Of course. Anytime."

She opens the other eye, teasing fading. "Like now?"

"Now's good."

She slides over in the tiny hospital bed, making just enough room for him to stretch out beside her. He wraps an arm around her, and Alana curls gratefully against him, burrowing against his chest.

They both know this is far from over. That there is so much to deal with, so much pain and trauma and guilt that they have not even begun to feel yet. But Will is free, Alana is alive, and they are together; for now, that's enough.


End file.
